


close to the heart

by altilis



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altilis/pseuds/altilis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard steps out from a party expecting to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	close to the heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrunchySalad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrunchySalad/gifts).



**1958**

At this point, Howard isn't exactly sure what the party is for; all he knows is that the bar is stocked very well, and he probably can't find this brand of vodka or that brand of German lager anywhere in the States but here.

Yet late in the night he can't stand any of the people, he hates talking to these people that don't know anything about what he is or what he does, and that kid, Stane, says he can't leave yet because that would make too much of a fuss for the rest o the party. So instead, Howard finds a place to get some fresh air and some space, and the only place that gives him both is the roof of the building, which he finds after two flights of stairs.

He didn't even spill his drink.

Howard steps over to the very edge of the roof where he can look down at the bright-lit boulevard below. He watches the cars mozy by for a minute or so, swirling his drink in his hand, before he finally swallowed the last of the liquid in the glass. It went down with a nice, reassuring burn, just as always did.

The scratch of a shoe against the rooftop causes him to spin, empty glass gripped tight in his hand, and he sees a man with a sharply-trimmed goatee standing there and sharing his look of surprise. "Sorry," the man says, "I'll just--" he gestures back to the door, but Howard shakes his head, holding his hands up.

"It's all yours if you want it," he says, starting to walk towards that very same door. "I just needed some air."

"And I," this man steps in front of him, casual enough that Howard doesn't feel crowded, "I need to talk to you. Howard." That makes him pause, step back, look over this man. No one really calls him Howard anymore - it's only Stark, _Mister_ Stark, among all his engineers and all their secretaries, the Secretary of Defense, and even Stane when they're not behind closed doors. 

"Who are you?"

"No one." The man walks past him to the same place where Howard had stood, confident that he won't just leave him and this strange conversation. It's a safe bet: Howard would do nearly anything to avoid going back to the socialites.

"At least give me a name."

The man shifts on his feet, thinking, but not with a nervous energy; he seems to muse over the question. "…Edward," he says, but with a little wince that Howard would miss if he blinked. “Listen, it doesn’t matter who I am. You can kind of take me as a ghost of Christmas past, but hear me out.” Edward takes a deep breath, pauses when he’s about to say something, and then finally says, looking straight at him, “Get married.”

Howard laughs; it’s the only response that doesn’t make his ulcer act up at this point. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“It’s all you need. There’s a nice woman downstairs who got a degree from the ‘tute. You’ll like her.”

A ghost of a smile lingers on Howard’s face as he stares at Edward in shock. The advice is shocking enough coming from a man he’s never met; the rest of it drowns out like white noise in the middle of his indignation. “I don’t know what you think gives you the right to say any of this,” he says with false geniality, stepping up to Edward on the ledge, “but that’s not going to happen.”

“Why?” Edward keeps his eyes on Howard as he sips from his own glass. “Performance issues?”

Howard snorts, and he steps closer as he eyes Edward from head to toe, lingering on the cut of his beard before glancing up to meet his eyes. “More like I’m not interested. I’ve got work to finish.”

Edward holds his glass so that it barely touches his lips, staring at him, but he doesn’t push Howard away, doesn’t tell him to step back, only holds that glass there for a long second before he sets it aside on the ledge. “She’s practical,” Edward continues, as if they aren’t standing so close, and then he puts his hand on Howard’s shoulder. It’s warm and strong and reminds Howard of college in Cambridge, the war in Europe, a reassuring grin under a blue helmet he made with his own hands. It reminds Howard of a lot of things he’s pushed out of his mind since the war.

“And what about you?” Howard asks, his hand sliding to Edward’s side, both to check for a gun and feel the muscle underneath his suit. There’s only the latter, and Howard smiles like he does at expos when he knows he has the crowd.

Edward stares at him, and a smile ghosts over his lips as he glances away, barely breathes a laugh, and then looks back again. “What the hell,” he mutters, and the hand at Howard’s shoulder shifts to his neck to jerk him into a kiss. Howard can taste the vodka from downstairs, but it’s secondary to the thrill he feels and the close press of their hips.

Howard puts his empty glass on the ledge so both hands can grab at the lapels of Edward’s jacket, keeping him close while they fight for control of the moment. There’s tongue and teeth and whispered curses, and Howard pulls at Edward’s shirt until Edward holds him away by the shoulders, stopping everything. “You’ll meet the girl?” he asks, and Howard stares at him, reeling from the shift.

“What does that have to do with this?”

“Will you or not?”

“Later,” Howard says, and he pulls at Edward’s suit jacket again. “After this.”

Edward hesitates—he glances away again—and then his eyes are searching Howard’s. “Yeah,” he says softly, “after this.” The kisses are slower then, but they still press close, and Howard feels mellowed out from the intimacy, the privacy, the safety of anonymity. He doesn’t actually need to know who this guy is; if there are cameras, Howard will find them. The roof’s too dark to get any photos someone would buy. He still sees a glimpse of gold from the corner of his eye, but it's too dim to be of any concern.

“I—I have to go,” Edward says when Howard wraps his arms around him and kisses his neck. Edward’s hands rest on his arms, pushing him away, and he doesn’t meet Howard’s eyes this time. “It’s been good. I’ll see you around.” Briefly, his hands tighten on Howard’s arms, and then he lets go and steps aside.

“Wait—”

“When you figure it out,” Edward says as he opens the door to return inside, “don’t be a jerk.”

He watches as Edward leaves. As he closes it a bright blue light illuminates the edges. Howard rushes forward to throw open the door, but when he does the staircase is the same, save for a brief glint of gold against the wall. He closes the door again and remains on the roof for a few minutes longer to regain his composure and straighten his clothes. Of all the things to happen here. Figure it out? What did that mean? Couldn’t he just enjoy a random act of depravity?

(Except he knows he can’t; he hasn’t kissed someone like that in a long time.)

When he returns to the party, a man with black hair and a checkered green-and-yellow pin stuck to his lapel comes right up to him, smiling fondly as if he’s known Howard all his life. “Mister Stark,” he says with a posh British accent, “may I introduce you to Maria Collins Carbonell?”


End file.
